


So that a thing may be for ever

by tea_for_lupin



Series: Forever-verse [1]
Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper
Genre: Angst, Celtic mythology FTW basically, Gen, John Rowlands Is Awesome, M/M, Romance, The Wild Magic, Will is a Very Good Folklorist, and Gwyn ap Nudd, and The Dream of Rhonabwy, and the welsh language, but i tried, gratuitous abuse of arthurian mythology, including the avellenau, reference to something, the Wild Hunt too, works in mysterious ways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:26:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_for_lupin/pseuds/tea_for_lupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will and Gwion love each other and are destined to be together. But it's going to take a while. In the meantime, mysterious things happen to Bran following the death of Owen Davies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note to warn that there are a couple of instances in this story that involve homophibic language and situations. It's not a huge component of the tale but I don't want to distress anyone so here's your heads-up.
> 
> The first part of this story takes place roughly 4 years after the events of _Silver on the Tree_ , making Will 16-17 years old. If you consider this to be 'underage' for sexual activity with an older man then just be warned. Bear in mind that Will is also an Old One, though, and not an ordinary boy. 
> 
> Part One takes place in the late 1970s; Part Two is spread out over the following 10-15 years or so.
> 
> Any mangling of Welsh language, geography, etc is entirely my own and in the grand tradition of Susan Cooper's original works (at least so far as the geography goes, anyway). 
> 
> Finally, the most massive thanks in the world to my beta fromthewildwood, who has been the greatest source of support and enthusiasm from the get-go and whose very existence fills me with nerdy delight.

Will said gently, 'Forever?' He picked a yellow apple and held it up, his eyes smiling at Gwion.

Gwion looked back at him with a strange faraway look on his strong bearded face. 'For ever and ever, we say when we are young, or in our prayers. Twice, we say it, Old One, do we not? For ever and ever ... so that a thing may be for ever, a life or a love or a quest, and yet begin again, and be for ever just as before. And any ending that may seem to come is not truly an ending, but an illusion. For Time does not die, Time has neither beginning nor end, and so nothing can end or die that has once had a place in Time.'

— _Silver on the Tree._

*  
PART ONE

The first time Will dreamt about Gwion he woke to the dismay of sticky sheets and the grateful relief that his parents were away in London for the weekend.

He knew that this sort of thing happened, had heard it discussed at school and so forth; it had just never happened for him before. He knew, also, that he was what his mother affectionately called 'a late bloomer', a phrase that made Will scowl like any ordinary sullen teenager, especially when James—who had turned out to be an early bloomer—heard it used and laughed, ruffling his younger brother's hair and calling him the family's beautiful baby boy. There would be a half-hearted scuffle and then Will would grab one of the dogs and go out for a walk, leaving his mother to chastise James for teasing Will about something he couldn't help.

Will didn't mind, not really; he put up with this sort of thing from James because he understood there was no malice in it. At school it was different; there had been a few occasions when Will had had to make it clear that he would not put up with bullying, either of himself or others. It hadn't taken much more than a look, a slight unveiling of the Old One's authority that lay hidden within him, and the other, bigger boys had fallen back. They left him alone, now, and anyone else who Will chose to stand by. For Will was the Watchman, and though he could not be everywhere at once, he was good at being where he needed to be, a quiet solid presence at the edge of a brewing fight. It was not always enough, but it helped.

If his parents were sometimes concerned that Will was too much a loner, more interested in his languages and books and mythology than in his peers, they also seemed to sense that this was natural for him, not a sign of unhappiness. Will was thankful that for the most part they let him grow up in his own way. And after all, as the youngest of such a large family it was perhaps not surprising that Will shouldn't need a lot of other company; there was always so much to be had at home, and space to himself was a precious thing.

On this particular morning, once Will had cleaned himself and his bed up and seated himself at the kitchen table with breakfast and tea—alone, it was much too early for James or Mary to be showing their faces on a weekend—only then did the fragments of the dream come back to him, and his stomach flipped over so completely that he had to put down his toast and take a deep breath.

Gwion.

Gwion smiling at him and holding out his callused hand, almost shyly, and when Will took and clasped it, feeling the pressure of each warm finger and the contrasting coolness of the ring that Gwion wore, it was as if he had been lanced through by lightning, so sharp and clear was the wanting that lit him from head to toe. He had smiled back at Gwion in turn, and then the older man was pressing their mouths together—

Oh no. Oh, no. Will sank his head into his hands.

He had not thought much about Gwion for a long time. Certainly not as a person, although whenever he came across the name of Taliesin in a book there was a dim marveling glow at the back of his mind ( _I have met this man, the radiant poet, in a lost land in a lost life_ ), and of course if he thought about it he remembered the brave friendliness in Gwion's face as he bid Will and Bran farewell amidst the thundering waves. Will had liked Gwion, instinctively and with the whole of himself, both the Old One and the boy. But he had not missed him as he had missed Merriman, or as he had grieved the lost parts of Bran's memory, or the Drews'.

And now this dream, purely and simply out of the blue. What made it worse was that it was not the way that these dreams were supposed to _be_ ; from all that Will had been able to piece together—from all that his experience in the world showed him—males were simply not supposed to have dreams like that about other males. Will was the first to admit that he had never been very interested in girls as romantic propositions. In fact, having been forced on regular occasions to provide a sympathetic ear to tales of his siblings' travails in love, he had privately concluded that it all sounded like a lot more trouble than it was worth. But he had assumed that this was simply a part of his late-blooming nature and that one day, when he met the right girl, he would feel something more than just friendship.

His heart thumped painfully in his chest. It had never crossed his mind that there might actually be something else different about him, as if he _needed_ anything over and above the fact that he was an Old One, and the last one left in the world, at that. 

On the other hand, perhaps he shouldn't even be surprised.

 _It was just one dream_ , he reasoned with himself. _You're making too much of this. It'll probably never happen again, so you may as well stop worrying about it._

He downed his tea and swallowed the last of his toast, then called the dogs from their spot near the hearth and went outside to collect the eggs, shaking his head. The day was fine and shaping up to be warm; the sky was cloudless and the air still. A bright scrap of paper near the henhouse caught Will's eye. It was a torn-off bit of flyer, printed in garish yellows and pinks, advertising the Spring Fair that was to be held at the church. It was today, Will noticed. He stuffed the flyer into his pocket. Well, Mary and James were unlikely to surface any time soon, but the fair might be worth a visit, and if they wanted to join him there later... He'd leave them a note.

*

The fair was just getting underway when Will arrived. There were stalls selling jams and chutneys, a jumble sale, a table piled high with flowers and vines that were being woven into crowns by a group of giggling young girls. There was a small stage, where the vicar was tentatively testing the microphone, a pavilion offering scones and tea, and a large selection of plants for sale. Everywhere there were flowers and brightly coloured flags, and Will felt his sprits lift as he wandered lazily around, listening to the merry sounds of people enjoying themselves in the sunshine.

His attention was caught by a sudden peal of laughter close by. Turning, he saw an old woman watching him, and when she saw that he had noticed her, she laughed again. The sound made Will uneasy; it was not exactly malicious, but nor was it altogether friendly.

'Is something funny, ma'am?' he asked politely.

She gave him a piercing glance. 'That depends on your point of view.' She was standing in the doorway of a red tent, and as she slipped inside Will almost laughed in his turn, so deliberately mysterious did she appear. Pinned to the outer wall of the tent was a large colour print depicting a young man, a white dog by his side and a bundle tied to a stick over his shoulder. He seemed to be in the process of stepping blithely off a cliff into thin air. At the bottom of the image was written, in ornate letters, 'THE FOOL.'

The old woman poked her head out and looked at him again. 'Well, young man, are you coming in or aren't you?'

Will considered her for a moment, reassessing her age as he realised that though her hair was iron-grey her skin was unlined, and her eyes were very quick and very bright, so dark as to be almost black. _She reminds me of the Lady_ , he thought with sudden surprise, and it was this more than anything else that decided him. 'All right, I'll come in.'

There was nothing inside the tent save a low table, draped with a black cloth upon which was set what looked to be a deck of playing cards, and two wooden stools.

'Are you new around here?' Will asked, taking one of the stools as he was bidden. 'Sorry—not to be rude—it's just I don't think I've seen you in town before?'

'I come and I go,' the woman said. 'And now, will you draw the cards with me, Will Stanton?'

Will felt his mouth hanging open and quickly shut it. 'How did you know my name?'

'I know who you are, Watchman,' she answered, with an impatient wave of her hand, and Will felt the hairs on the back of his neck and arms stand up. Without another word he took the deck of cards and shuffled them, cut them, shuffled them again. When he handed them back she took them and spread them out all in a row, face down, before him. 'Now. Choose three. Don't think about it too much.'

With some trepidation Will drew three cards. He felt that the world outside had faded away and only he and this uncanny woman who was both old and young now existed. He turned the cards face up.

The Hanged Man. The Lovers. The World.

Will stared at the brightly coloured images; they seemed to glow with a light of their own in the cool dimness of the tent. 'What does it mean?'

'Interesting times,' said the woman. She spoke quickly now, with quiet intensity. 'Interesting times. A time for surrender is coming, a time to wait and see. There's a choice to make, transformation and wisdom at the end of it.' 

'...Oh.' Will tried to take this in, make sense of it, but all he felt was completely at sea. 

'You know about surrender, Watchman; the path that you walk has always been laid before your feet, since long before you were born. The thing is, you don't fight it; it's beautiful to watch. And rare, that sort of wisdom. So your power goes where it needs to; like water flowing downhill.' She gave him a sharp look. 'But it's a lonely path, isn't it, now that the Dark is gone and the Circle faded beyond Time? Lonely, though not alone. Not any more.'

Will's heart leapt into his mouth; for some reason her words brought the image of Gwion, dark-clad, grey-bearded, sharply back into his mind, and he felt his cheeks grow red. The woman paid no attention; she was pointing to the final card, which showed a naked figure that was both man and woman, dancing within a wreath of blossoms and leaves. 'And all the world to gain at the end; the last journey, and no more waiting.'

Almost before Will could blink she had twitched open the flap of the tent and was looking at him as if astonished to find him still there. 'Remember what I've told you. Have patience. Good day, young man.'

'Wait a minute—' But when Will turned, bewildered and no wiser than before he received all this strange advice, the tent and the woman were gone. A raven flapped its wings and flew up into a tree, looking down at him silently with jet-black eyes.

*

Despite Will's hopes, the dreams about Gwion persisted. They did not happen every night, nor were they even usually as passionate as the first one had been; rather, they became fraught with so much longing, were laced with so much beauty and music, that Will would wake with tears on his face and his heart like lead in his chest. He could not tell whether the longing was his own or Gwion's; in the dream world that they walked the feeling seemed to envelop them both like a shared cloak, and the smile on Gwion's face when he raised his eyes from his harp would make Will catch his breath every time. 

During his waking hours Will was by turns wonderingly ecstatic and miserably angry. If he was going to be in love with _anyone,_ why couldn't it be with someone in his actual life, not with a shadow in a dream—the shadow of a person he had only met once, for that matter? Did this sort of thing happen to all Old Ones, this hopeless pining for a figure outside of Time, or was it only him? Would his life never be simple and straightforward? 

He thought of Merriman and Arthur, the bright fierce loyalty that bound them together, and wondered. At times Will even wished desperately that Merriman was there for him to ask, and simultaneously the mere idea of having such a ridiculous conversation with anyone, let alone Merriman, made him want to die of embarrassment. He felt he could howl with frustration. Although he did his best to hide his distress from his family, he could not always manage to act his usual easygoing self, and occasionally he caught his mother looking at him with unaccustomed worry on her face.

'You are looking down in the dumps, Will,' Mary said one evening as he poked rather glumly at a potato he didn't really feel like eating. 

Will stuffed his mouth with food immediately. ''M fine,' he said thickly, chewing.

'Manners, Will,' interspersed his father automatically.

'No you're not,' Mary persisted, and then to Will's horror her face lit up with the glee only siblings could exhibit as she added, 'I bet I know what it is. Finally! _You're in love_.'

' _I am not_.' Will was on his feet, fists clenched; only when he saw the surprise on his family's faces did he realise how loudly and furiously he had spoken. His heart was hammering; forcing himself to relax his hands, he said, more quietly, 'I'm not.' And he slammed up the stairs into his bedroom.

It was some time later when a gentle knock on the door came, and his mother poked her head around. 'Can I come in, Will?'

'Yes.'

Alice entered, pausing to switch on the light beside his bed, where he had been lying as the room darkened around him. Will blinked in the sudden brightness and saw the mug that she held out to him. 'I made you some tea,' she said, in the warm offering way of mothers concerned about their children, and Will sat up to accept it.

'Thanks.' He sounded a little gruff, but he didn't care. The tea was milky and sweet, and as he drank it he looked studiously anywhere other than at his mother, finally settling on watching the stars through the window as they began to appear against the deep blue of the night sky. He could feel his mother's eyes on him.

'Would you like to talk about it, love?'

He opened his mouth, and closed it again. Then, 'No, Mum, it's all right,' he said with a shrug, and he heard her give the small exasperated sigh with which she habitually greeted her offsprings' refusal to be reasonable. And he wished so hard that he could explain it to her, but it was just too difficult, and there would be too many _questions_ , and under it all lay his fear that if his mother knew what he was and who he loved she would be repulsed, and Will didn't think he could bear that.

Following his outburst at dinner that night the dreams receded, and for a couple of weeks they did not come at all. Will was immeasurably relieved, because it meant he could actually focus on the exams that he had to pass if he wanted to maintain his chances at a scholarship for Oxford. Perhaps it had been like an illness, he reflected, some kind of disturbance in whatever magical energy he carried with him. He put all thought of Gwion out of his mind, and buckled down to his studies, and refused to acknowledge the part of him that felt like crying.


	2. Chapter 2

Will arrived home from school and slung his bag over the back of a chair, helping himself to a jam tart and reflecting pleasurably on the fact that there was so little homework this close to the end of school. He heard the murmur of his mother's voice and the click of the telephone being hung up, and then Alice entered the kitchen, looking grave.

'Oh Will, I'm glad you're home. I'm afraid I've some bad news. That was your Auntie Jen on the phone just now—'

'Is she all right?'

'Oh yes—but it's Owen Davies, your friend Bran's father. He's had a heart attack.'

Will stared at her. 'Mr Davies? But—is he—?' His mother shook her head. Will set down the rest of the tart and stared at his hands, trying to take in the news. 'Oh no. Poor Bran.'

'Jen says the boy's in a bad way over it, as he would be.' Alice began to busy herself filling the kettle and placing it on the stove. 'Why don't you write to him, Will? Aunt Jen says that if you wanted to visit them over part of the summer they'd be happy to have you, and you could be there, for Bran.'

Clear in Will's mind rose the image of Bran after the death of Cafall, hunched within his dark clothes, saying _go away, go away_. 'He might not want to see me.'

'Perhaps not,' his mother agreed. 'Grief is like that sometimes, love, it can make us push away those who can help us just when we need them most. But Jen seemed to think that Bran would be glad of your company. Would you like to go? Did you have any other plans for the holidays?'

'No,' Will said. 'No other plans... I'll go and write to Bran now.'

His mother smoothed some hair back from Will's forehead. 'And it might do you some good, too, Will—a bit of time away from here, seeing some different people.' There was half a question tucked into her words, but Will chose to ignore it.

It was the hardest letter Will had ever written. Normally the correspondence between himself and Bran was chatty if a bit sporadic; enough to maintain a friendship while sparing Will the pain of dwelling on the fact that Bran remembered nothing of the Light, the Dark, or anything out of the ordinary in either himself or Will. They were letters full of small anecdotes and wry humour, the bemoaning of schoolwork and parental vagaries, with the occasional speculative drift into what the future might hold. But as Will sat at his desk that evening, no words would come to him. At last he settled for a simple heartfelt scribble.

_Dear Bran,_  
I just heard about your father, from Aunt Jen via Mum. I'm so very sorry. I was thinking of coming to visit for some of the summer. What do you think?  
Will. 

Some days later the reply arrived, written in Bran's characteristically neat script, though uncharacteristically abrupt, for which Will could not blame him.

_That would be nice. Thank you, Will._

*

This time it was Aunt Jen who picked Will up from Tywyn station in the LandRover, and after the expected exchange of details about the family and their doings Will asked, 'So how is Bran?' 

By this time it was about three weeks since Owen's death. 'He is bearing up,' Aunt Jen said thoughtfully. 'It has hit him hard, but yes, he is bearing up—although I think, Will, that perhaps the full shock of it has still not properly reached him, not yet. It was very sudden.'

'He's not living alone in the cottage, is he?'

'No, no—we would not allow that, of course. Your uncle and I offered to have him with us, and he did stay a couple of nights, but John Rowlands has taken him in now. Like a second father to Bran he's always been, and lonely enough too these last few years since his wife died. You were here when that happened, weren't you, Will?'

'Oh yes,' Will said. 'Yes. I remember.'

He looked out the window as the hedgerows and green fields passed them by beneath a fine mist of rain, and a pale rainbow stretched away over the hills. 'Look for the arch of the Light,' Will whispered to himself, hearing the words in Gwion's voice and feeling a faint tingle over his skin at the thought before he firmly pushed it away.

His aunt looked over at him with a smile. 'The arch of the light? You're a poetic one.'

'Well, um, sometimes. Not really. Um, it was something I read.' Will grimaced and sought for a less fraught topic of conversation. 'So is the Davies' cottage empty, now?'

'As it happens, no. We've been short handed since Rhys married in the spring and it's not been easy to find someone, although of course all the men have pulled around to help us, as much as they can... Still they have their own farms to care for, we can't expect too much. But then as luck would have it John Rowlands met a fellow in Tywyn, looking for work and a place to stay for the summer. Elgan Jones, his name is, and he is to have the keep of the Davies' cottage for the next couple of months at least, while Bran stays with John.'

'Does Bran mind?' 

Aunt Jen shook her head. 'It's hard to tell. Myself, I think it is good for him to be away from the house, close enough but not too close, at least for the moment. And now that school is finished he will be working too. I should tell you, Will, we shall need your help on the farm while you're here—'

Will grinned. 'Of course—I would've expected that anyway, even if Mum hadn't given me strict instructions to make myself useful. I'm looking forward to it, honestly.'

'Well, that is well and good. But we will make sure that you and Bran have some time to enjoy yourselves.' Her smile faded and was replaced with a faint frown. 'He is a loner still, Will, he does not have many friends. You'll watch out for him, won't you?'

'Oh yes,' Will said. He saw the gate of Clywd farm come into view, and the sun broke through the clouds. 'I'm good at that.'

*

The shepherd's pie that his aunt was pulling out of the oven filled the warm kitchen with a mouth-watering fragrance. 'Aunt Jen,' Will said appreciatively as he set the table, 'your cooking smells as delicious as ever.' 

There was a sound of Welsh voices outside, and of boots being scraped, and David Evans walked in, accompanied by Bran and John Rowlands. 'Will _bach_ , good to see you again,' he said warmly, shaking Will's hand and clapping him on the back.

' _Croeso,_ Will, _sut d'ach chi_?' said John Rowlands in his pleasant deep voice, face creasing with smiles as he shook Will's hand in turn.

' _Da iawn, diolch, a chi_? See, I haven't forgotten,' Will answered carefully, grinning, and there was a chorus of friendly laughter as chairs were pulled out and the older men sat down.

Then he turned to Bran, who had hung back by the door. Behind Will there was a moment of silence, which Aunt Jen, thoughtful as always, filled by asking John and her husband about the day they had had on the farm. Swiftly Will took in the changes in his friend. Bran had grown; he was now a full head taller than Will, whose own growth spurt had not been particularly dramatic, and his face, never naturally merry, had a pinched look. His uncanny eyes met Will's, but he could not seem to manage a smile. Looking at Bran now Will realised just how much he had missed him over the last few years, and for a moment he had to fight his instinct to kneel before the white-haired boy who no longer remembered that he was a king. But he mastered himself, and instead, acting on a sudden deeply human impulse in the face of grief, moved forward and wrapped Bran in an awkward hug, squeezing him tight and feeling a quick grateful pressure of arms in return.

'Thanks for coming, Will,' Bran said quietly as they took their own places at the table.

The food was as good as always and they ate amidst companionable talk of sheep and rain, crops and sports, and as the meal came to an end the conversation turned to the topic of what Will and Bran might like to do over the next few days.

'Well now,' David Evans said amiably, 'tomorrow is Friday and I think I could see my way to letting you boys spend it on your own time if you would promise to give us a hand for the markets on Saturday.'

Bran merely nodded, but Will said cheerfully, 'That sounds great, thanks Uncle David. What shall we do, Bran—go up the mountain for the day, or would you rather go into town?'

'You are the guest; suit yourself,' Bran said with a shrug, and Will caught the brief glances of concern that flickered between the adults at the dull tone of Bran's voice. So he said, still cheerful, 'All right then, why don't we do the mountain tomorrow, head on up towards the lake?'

'All right.'

'Elgan Jones will be working up that way tomorrow. I have set him to repair the fence at the boundary there,' Will's uncle said. 'A good worker, that man, I am glad to have him.'

'What's he like?' Will asked.

'He is a strange one,' John Rowlands said slowly. 'A hard worker, as your uncle says, Will, and a good man, I believe, but there is something strange about him nonetheless. He was born in the valley, he says, though his family moved away when he was just a child, which must be so, I suppose, for he is my age if he is a day and I do not recall ever having met him before. Though perhaps my memory is not what it was.' 

Will shot him a sharp sidelong glance, but there seemed to be no more to his words than what appeared on the surface.

'Strange or not he is a _dewin_ \- Are you all right?' Bran turned to slap Will, who had choked on his tea, hard on the back. Will, red-faced and coughing, made apologetic splutters. 

'Sorry. Went down the wrong way. My fault for drinking too fast. You were saying, Bran?'

'Elgan Jones, he is a _dewin_ with the harp.' And for the first time that evening a certain degree of animation lit Bran's eyes, so that they shone with something of their usual tawny light. 'I thought that this man—' he pointed to John Rowlands '—had a rare gift for the harp, but I have never heard music played like this. It is not of this world.'

'I would love to hear it,' Will said, slowly. 'He must be very good indeed.'

*

Will thought, later, that he must have in some way expected what was coming. If he were truly honest with himself, his bones had begun to hum from the very moment he suggested a visit to the mountain. But he had been reluctant to consider that there might be any other interpretation, and put it down to the innate magic of the land beneath his feet; the nearness of the Old Ways drawn on the invisible silver map that only he now could read.

As he and Bran climbed they spoke little, saving their breath. The sun was high in the cloudless sky; Bran joked that the weather gods must have been keeping it especially for Will's arrival, as it had been a particularly wet summer up until this point. Eventually they threw themselves down to rest their backs against a group of rough-hewn grey rocks, and drank some of the lemonade they had brought with them.

'There's cake, too, and sandwiches—Aunt Jen packed us a proper picnic,' Will said, rummaging through the rucksack.

'Cake sounds good, now—hand it over.' Bran caught the piece that Will tossed to him; it was solid and sweet and rich with butter. 'Mmm, good. She's a fine cook, your Auntie Jen. I suppose I should ask her to teach me a few things.'

His eyes behind their dark lenses were focused on something in the distance, and Will heard the careful control in his voice. 'I'm sure she'd be delighted.'

They ate and drank in silence for a while, and then, as Bran seemed still disinclined to say anything much, Will began to talk. He spoke quietly and easily, filling the space between them with small unimportant stories, feeling his friend gradually relax beside him. He even managed, by dint of a particularly vivid rendition of a prank that had been played on the Latin master at school, to elicit from Bran a shout of laughter. Then the white-haired boy stood and stretched, offering a hand to pull Will to his feet. With unexpected frankness, he said all in a rush, ' _Duw_ , Will, it is good to see you.'

'Hey. You're welcome.' Will brushed some grass off his jeans, adding a trifle awkwardly, 'Look, Bran… if there's anything I can do—'

'Ah, what is there to do anyway?' The pain was suddenly thick in Bran's voice and he dug his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders. The skin of his arms looked very white against the dark fabric of his t-shirt. Then he gave Will a half-smile. 'It is enough that you are here. Honest.'

Will shouldered the rucksack. 'Shall we keep going?'

Bran looked up the slope, and pointed. 'If I am not mistaken, that is Elgan Jones up-away over there.' Will could just make out a small dark figure, bending as if over some piece of work. 'We shall go and see him, and deliver your auntie's invitation to join us for tea, and ask him to play the most eloquent ballads on the harp in your honour this fine evening.' 

'Get lost,' Will said, giving him a friendly shove. They started once more to climb. 'Is he really that good?'

'He is—' Bran shook his head, as if in wonder. 'I cannot describe it to you, Will, you will just have to hear it for yourself. It… it helps, the music. It doesn't make me happy, but it makes me feel less sad.'

Will had no response; he settled for squeezing Bran's shoulder, wordlessly.

They toiled up the last, steepest part of the hill, which was hard going on its own, but Will found that a dizziness was also now assailing him. The air seemed to shiver in a way he could no longer attribute to the summer heat alone, and there was a ringing in his ears. As they neared the top he actually stumbled and fell; Bran hauled him up, telling him good-naturedly that he was a clumsy _sais_ whose feet were no good for Welsh mountains. Will forced out a suitable rejoinder, and struggled on, head down, concentrating on each individual step. 

Someone was waiting for him, up there, and he could not, would not, think about it— 

Then Bran was calling out a greeting in Welsh, and Will looked up at last to see exactly what he had expected but not dared to believe—

Gwion was dressed in sturdy dark trousers and a faded chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows, neat and lean and grey-bearded as Will last remembered seeing him, and his hand was warm in Will's as Bran introduced them. 

'Mrs Evans' compliments to Mr Jones,' Bran was saying, mock-solemnly, 'and she would be pleased if you would do us the honour of eating with us this evening, and perhaps play for us afterwards, in celebration of Will's arrival like the prodigal son he is.'

'It would be my pleasure, Bran—' The dark shining eyes sought out Will's, and there was a question in them. 'If Will would like it.'

'I would.' Will had no idea how he contrived to keep his voice as steady and normal as it sounded; if his bones had been humming before, his whole being felt now that it was filled with song. 'That would be wonderful.' 

*

That Bran had no memory of Gwion-as-Gwion was abundantly clear, nor did he remember anything but the most mundane aspects of their prior adventures on the mountain. If Will had been any less caught up in amazement he was sure that here, in this place, the grief he'd worked so hard to put behind him would have been hard to bear. As it was, he felt he had stepped into a great river that was carrying him out onto a strange sea; it was exhilarating, and it was terrifying, and there was no resisting the current.

The evening meal was both a pleasure and a torment; Will took care to sit as far from Gwion as possible but simultaneously longed to be alone with him, to ask a thousand questions he had no idea how to phrase. Gwion spoke mostly with Aunt Jen and John Rowlands, some matter of local lore or history that John Rowlands had brought up—their conversation was thickly scattered with Welsh and although Will could understand them perfectly well, thanks to his Old One's gifts, naturally he had to pretend not to. Gwion looked at him often but Will could not read the expression in his eyes, and he concentrated instead on listening to David Evans who was discussing the purchase of some new working dogs with Bran. 

When at last the plates were cleared away Gwion stood and walked into the parlour to play. And Will caught his breath as the music rippled out: it was like listening to a sunset of red and gold as it faded slowly into profound night, while the stars made their appearance like pinpricks of pure silver on an expanse of blue velvet; it was the music of crystal spheres ringing and echoing in the deepest darkness as the world below fell slowly into sleep, breathing softly. 

As if pulled by a cord he could feel but not see, Will stood and crossed to the parlour door. He was not surprised to see that no one else moved; they were no longer even aware of him. 

Gwion stilled the strings at last with the palms of his hands and Will found that he needed to clear his throat in order to speak. 'That was... beautiful.'

The bard rose and gave a strangely formal bow in acknowledgement. 'My thanks, and welcome.'

'What—' Will's voice was still husky. 'Why are you here?'

' _Duw_ , Old One, do you not know?' The older man held his gaze steadily. 'I am here—because you are here.'

Will shook his head, insistent. 'No, really.'

The look on Gwion's bearded face was close to unhappy. 'It is the truth I am telling you, Will.'

'I just—I don't understand.' Will leant against the doorframe and pressed his fingers to his eyes for a moment. 'Why here, why now—why me?'

The expression on Gwion's face took on a touch of wryness. 'You ask hard questions. Have you no easier riddles for me to try? For how far back should I begin? I have lived a long time, Will; I am older by far than Merriman, who is the first of your Circle, and I have died and been reborn more times than I can remember. I have been forged on the anvil and drowned under the sea. I have been a maker, and a soldier, I have been a thief; I have sent down roots and drunk water from the earth and I have ridden the wings of the wind. And, most lately, I have allied myself with the Light against the Dark, breaking the rule of the Land to which I belonged, watching the king whom I loved as a father fall into darkness from which I could not save him, not until Bran came to claim the crystal sword. And he brought you with him, his _dewin_ bright with power—and I knew, then, for whom I had been waiting, for so very long.'

The force of Gwion's words felled Will to his knees; it was speech as sweet as music and more powerful than song. In the next instant Gwion was kneeling before him, taking one of Will's hands in his own but doing nothing more than press a kiss to Will's fingers.

Will could not hold back the sound that broke from his lips; it was half a groan, half a sob. 'I don't even _know_ you—' 

Gwion let Will's hand fall, and his voice was tight. 'I am sorry, Will—'

But now the world had shaken itself into a new shape and everything was both the same and completely different, exquisitely clear, as if it had been drawn anew by a master artist for this very moment. All in a sudden Will understood what it meant to make a choice that was no choice but simply the way things were; water flowing downhill. _Lonely, but not alone; not any more._

Will seized Gwion's hand, strong bones under brown skin, and he could feel the pulse beating there, quick and fierce. His words were tumbling over themselves in their eagerness to be spoken. 'No, Gwion, wait. I don't even know you but I know that I _love_ you, I love you like I never knew I could love anyone, and—' he was half-laughing now '—it's the most frightening thing I've ever felt, and it is _glorious_ , I just don't understand how it can even be _possible_ —' 

And then there were no more words because Gwion was kissing him, kissing him hard and deep and with so much desire; warm fingers curled around the back of Will's neck to pull him closer, and the sheer joyful _rightness_ of it made him want to burst apart like a firework into a beautiful lace of scarlet sparks. When they broke the kiss at last they were both gasping, and Gwion's eyes shone.

'What—what do we do now?' Will asked, breathlessly.

Gwion laughed, and the sound was rich and full of delight. 'Old One, Will, my Will, what would you like to do?'

Will flushed; he was painfully aware of the tightness in his jeans and of course he had noticed that Gwion was in the same condition—but he did not think he was ready for _that_ , not yet—it was all too new, too soon. He said, a little hesitantly, searching Gwion's face, 'Another kiss, then?'

As if reading his thought Gwion drew him into his arms, holding Will tight for one long moment, caressing his back. 'Of course, _cariad_.' And this time as their lips met it was slower, less urgent, more gentle.

Eventually Gwion released him, reluctantly, and they both stood up; even then the bard still stroked the side of Will's face as if he could not bear not to be touching him. 'The spell will not last much longer, I am afraid. We must return to the world of time, soon.'

Will made a face, and blushed even redder as he tried to adjust himself. 'I might need another minute or two.' 

Gwion looked as if he was about to say something, but instead only smiled and seated himself once more at the harp. As he began to dance his fingers over the strings he said, 'I have been many things, Will, but I have never been as happy as I am at this moment.'

And as Will walked back to his seat in the kitchen he had to work very hard to wipe the most idiotic of smiles from his face.


	3. Chapter 3

'Which one do you think?' Will held up two postcards. 'Mountains with clouds... or mountains with sheep?'

Bran looked at him severely over the top of his glasses. 'Mountains with sheep, of course. It does not get any more Welsh than mountains with sheep.'

'Mountains with sheep playing the harp?'

'And a choir of sheep farmers singing the chorus. Very funny.'

Will grinned and paid for the postcard. 'All right then, give me a couple of minutes to do my filial duty and send this off.'

_Dear Mum, hello from Tywyn! Having a great time so far and the weather is lovely—it hasn't even rained since I arrived which I'm assured is a miracle. Aunt Jen sends all her love. I've spent the last few days helping with the markets and the vegie garden. Bran is going to get a new dog from one of the other farms—shall I see if I can smuggle one home too? Only joking! Love, Will._

He handed it over the counter and stepped outside to rejoin Bran. 

Bran was not alone. A group of four boys, about their own age, were with him; Will did not catch all of what the tallest, dark-haired one was saying, but the tone of it was unmistakable. Bran had removed his glasses, despite the bright daylight. His face was set and carefully expressionless, but there was a gleam in his uncovered golden eyes that Will did not like, at all. He moved up to stand beside him, as casually as he could. 'What's going on, Bran?' 

One of the other boys said, ' _Dim rhyfedd mae angen i chi Sais i sugno eich ceiliog, ni fyddai unrhyw Cymro yn ei wneud_!’ —and Bran actually drew back his fist and would have hit the boy full in the face had Will not been quicker despite his shock, grabbing Bran's arm and holding him back. 

'Ah, look: the little bitch has his freak master on the leash.' The boy smirked and the others sniggered. 

Will could feel Bran trembling, though whether from rage or fear or something else he did not know. ' _'Sdim ots_ , Bran,' he said quietly, pulling his friend's arm down slowly but surely. 'Come on, let's go.' 

'That's right, English, take him away from here.' Another of the boys, fairer-haired than the first, was speaking now, and he wore an expression of such hatred that Will wanted to recoil. 'Freaks like him do not belong here; we have always said so.' 

Bran spat out a curse, low and contemptuous, and the first boy stepped closer; Will could see where this was going and at last his building anger flared and spilled over. They had no right to speak to _anyone_ like this, no right, and for them to dare to do it to Bran—He put up his hand, palm outward, and said, very quietly but with all the furious command of the Old One that he was, 'Get. Out. Of here. _Now_.' 

The four of them backed away, turned, and then ran. 

Bran sank down onto the edge of the curb, drawing his knees to his chest and looking suddenly very small and drained. Will crouched down next to him. 'They were school chums of yours, I suppose?' he said wryly, and Bran's mouth twisted. 'Thought as much. Do you have a lot of trouble, with them?' 

Bran shrugged. He pulled his dark glasses from his pocket and sat turning them over and over in his hands. 'It has not been so bad, lately. Anyway I am not in the habit of brawling in the schoolyard, Da doesn't—' he stopped, and swallowed '— _did_ not approve. The virtues of turning the other cheek, you understand, I am sure I have explained them to you before. So for the most part I keep out of the way of the likes of Owen Price and his lovely friends. But today— ' He gave Will a sidelong glance. 'You don’t know what he said, do you?' 

'I heard it, I just didn't understand all the Welsh bits,' Will lied, as lightly as he could. 

'He said,' and the words came from Bran's lips with extraordinary clarity; Will closed his eyes with the pain of hearing them, partly because this was _Bran_ , who did not use language in ugly cruel ways like this, and partly because it just _hurt_ , 'that it was no wonder that I had to find a _sais_ to suck my cock, because no self-respecting Welshman would do it.' 

Will felt his stomach give a sick lurch. He could find nothing to say. 

'And I would happily have broken his nose for saying such a thing,' Bran went on, sounding almost detached now, 'and of course that would probably have turned out about as well as you would expect, wouldn't it, four against one... Or against two, I suppose, if you decided to join in the fun. But you stopped me, and then you told them to leave, and they fell over themselves to run away... How?' 

Will wrinkled his nose in what he hoped was a plausibly self-deprecating manner. 'Just luck? Anyway, it's broad daylight in the middle of town. They wouldn't really have dared tackle us here, would they?' 

Bran squinted at him consideringly. 'Perhaps.' He slid on his glasses and rose to his feet. 'At any rate I am glad to have escaped being beaten black and blue.' 

As they walked down the street, wheeling their bikes towards the beach, Bran said, so softly that Will could almost not hear him, 'The worst part, Will, is they are right.' 

Will felt, now, a dreadful premonition of something that he could not yet name, ringing faintly but insistently in the back of his mind. 'What do you mean?' 

'Now that Da is gone—I truly do not belong here any longer, and there is nothing to keep me.' 

* 

When Will arrived back at Clwyd farm he resolved to say nothing of the encounter in the town; it was not really his tale to tell, in any case. He hid his growing worry as best he could and assured Aunt Jen that they'd had a pleasant uneventful day. 

'Well, I am glad to hear it,' she said. 'Now Will, I know you have only just got back but would you mind taking this along down to Elgan Jones' cottage before tea? I would take it myself but these berries will not keep in this heat and if I do not get this jam made—' 

'Of course, that's fine.' Will finished a glass of water and scooped up the tea-towel wrapped bundle. 'What's inside?' 

' _Bara brith_.' 

Will set off feeling immensely cheered up. It had been several days since he had seen Gwion and his heart beat pleasurably at the thought. Of course, they would not be able to _do_ anything... but it would be enough, to be with him and to talk. Will was acutely aware that his time in Wales was short; what would happen when he had to return home he had no idea. 

He knocked on the door. 'Mr Jones?' 

Gwion opened it, his face creasing deep with smiles. ' _Dewch i mewn_ , Will.' 

Will handed him the bread. ' _Bara brith_ , from Aunt Jen.' 

'Well, that is a nice surprise.' Gwion closed the door and traced his fingers gently along Will's cheek, adding in a low voice, 'Although not as nice as to see you.' 

Will closed his eyes a moment, pressing into Gwion's touch. 'I could say the same, about you.' 

'I wish I could kiss you, _cariad_ , but we cannot be sure—' 

'I know. It's all right.' Will took a deep breath and moved to take a seat on the edge of the kitchen table. 'Really. I just—just want to spend some time with you.' 

The older man pulled out a chair and sat down. 'And what have you done with yourself today?' 

'A trip into town with Bran, to send a postcard, and go to the beach. But it was not... altogether pleasant.' Will chewed his lip. 'If I tell you about it, would you promise not to mention it to Uncle David or Aunt Jen or John Rowlands—or to let Bran know that you know? At least not for the time being?' 

Gwion stroked his beard. 'Of course, if you think that best.' And he listened, frowning. 

'…and I am worried about him,' Will concluded, 'more worried now than I was earlier, even. He was so—oh, I can hardly even describe it. Like something just suddenly changed, as if, I don't know, he was on a boat and he had cut himself adrift and was getting further and further away. I don't know what to do. I know he chose to give up his heritage, but… it feels like he is still a part of something, still connected, somehow. Oh, that doesn't even make any sense, being adrift, being connected—bah.' He shook his head in exasperation. 

'If you would like my thought, Will,' Gwion said slowly, 'I should say that Bran’s nature is now more akin to the Wild Magic, or the magic of the Lost Land itself, which was both Wild and something more. He renounced his part in the High Magic, it is true, but now his strongest connection with the world of ordinary men is also gone, and he is vulnerable at a time when the veil between the worlds is growing thinner. It is nearly Midsummer.' 

Will pushed his hair out of his eyes. 'I just wish… he doesn't _remember_ anything but he is still _my king_ and I can't just stand by and watch—' He looked helplessly at Gwion. 'But of course you would know how that feels, wouldn't you?' 

'Yes,' Gwion said. 'I know.' 

Will took his hand and squeezed it briefly. 'Where is he now, King Gwyddno?' 

'At peace, under the waves.' 

'I'm sorry.' 

Gwion shook his head. 'No, it is better so, Will, for his sake after so many long years of despair... And also, if I may say it, for mine, because it left me free to seek for you.' 

Will pressed his hands between his knees, because if he didn't he was going to reach out and touch Gwion, and if he so much as brushed his arm he would not be able to stop until... well, until he was late for tea at the very least. Forcing his mind away from thoughts of the things he so desperately wanted to do (hadn't he just said simply being with Gwion was enough?) he said, 'I wish we had more time to talk, right now... There are so many questions I want to ask you but I suppose they will have to wait. It's just—I'm only here for another couple of weeks at most.' 

Gwion bowed his head. 'I know. And we should discuss it soon... tonight, perhaps? Is there a way that you can come to join me tonight, without appearing... suspicious?' 

'I'll think of something,' Will said. 

* 

The sunset was fading pale to blue over the mountains when Will knocked on Gwion's door for the second time, and the air was thick and warm as the earth gave back the last of the day's heat. Light spilled out over his feet when the door was opened. 

' _Noswaith dda_ , Will.' 

' _Noswaith dda,_ ' Will said, no longer pretending to have trouble with his pronunciation or his accent. 

'You speak the language better than they give you credit for, Old One,' Gwion told him solemnly, but his eyes twinkled. 

'I didn't on my first visit.' Will grinned at the memory. 'You should have heard Bran abusing me up and down for a hopeless _sais_ , and John Rowlands telling me to stick to just _diolch_ rather than _diolch yn fawr_. Of course, that was because I'd been so sick, all my learning of Gramarye went away. It came back after a while. But then it was still better to pretend, otherwise they would have put me in a travelling circus as a prodigy.' Will set his rucksack on the table. 'Now, I've brought my notebook and my pencils—' 

Gwion fingered his beard, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 'And where exactly are we headed?' 

'Ah.' Will strove to keep a straight face. 'I've explained to them that I am quite keen on birds, especially owls, and that this afternoon we fell to discussing them, and I am now all set for you to take me to investigate a spot a little way from here where you thought some long-eared owls might be found. Fortunately, long-eared owls seem to be rare enough that if we don't happen to find any it will be no matter.' 

The older man gave a great shout of laughter. 'Will, you have the soul of a trickster.' 

'So, whenever you are ready, we can set off. If—' Will felt himself flush a little '—if you want to.' 

'And if—I suggest we stay here?' Gwion had turned off the kitchen's main light; now only a small lamp burned in a corner, and his strong features were shadowed. He took Will's face gently between his two hands, cupping the sides and brushing his thumbs tenderly across Will's cheekbones. 

Will swallowed, scarcely trusting himself to be able to speak. 'That's what I was hoping.' 

Gwion kissed him, lightly at first and then deeper, and Will tangled his fingers in Gwion's hair; he could not help the soft moan that he made when he felt Gwion press against him. The older man smelt of clean sweat and summer grass and beneath those the deeper scents of sandalwood and spice; Will breathed it all in with delight. At last Gwion drew back, just long enough to say, 'Come with me,' and he took the small lamp in one hand, and Will's hand in the other, leading him to one of the cottage's tiny bedrooms. 

And it would be more comfortable, Will told himself, and much more sensible to do... this sort of thing... on a bed, but he hesitated in the doorway as Gwion set the lamp down on the low bedside table. 

'What is it, _cariad_?' 

Will shook his head. 'Nothing. I don't know. I'm just... nervous?' He looked at Gwion, and then stared down at his shoes, so that his brown hair partially hid his reddened face. 'You probably think that's stupid.' 

Gwion sat on the edge of the bed. 'I do not think that, Will, nor will I ever.' He paused a moment, as if considering what to say next. 'Let me say this: I love you, and I want you in all the ways lovers can share, and I know our time here at this moment is short and precious—but that is all the more reason to spend it wisely.' 

Will bit his lip. 'I've just never—never done any of it before, with anyone. I never wanted to, until now. Well, not that people were exactly beating a path to my door. But you—' and the unexpected jealousy that suddenly welled up in him took him by surprise '—you've probably had lots of, of lovers who knew what they were doing and I just don't know how to—' He ran out of words to try and express what he wanted to say, and shrugged. 

'Will,' Gwion said softly, 'come here.' 

He unbuttoned Will's shirt with swift sure fingers, and he undid Will's jeans and pushed them over his hips and down his legs. Will, who had always had a very realistic view of the ordinariness of his own appearance, felt a surge of amazement when he realised that Gwion was looking at him, studying him slowly but hungrily, as if he was the most lovely and precious thing in the world. He bit his lip, and tried not to feel self-conscious. He had never even imagined that anyone could look at him like that. 

Gwion stroked Will's bare sides, briefly and delicately; he brushed his hands across the soft curve of Will's stomach and then swept around and over his arse, and every touch made Will tremble, until he was astonished to find he could still stand. Then Gwion was unbuttoning his own shirt, slipping off his own dark trousers, setting them in a neat pile at the end of the bed along with Will's, and Will caught his breath. Gwion's body was small and _beautiful_ ; he was scarcely taller than Will but he was leaner, darker, and the thick grey curls on his chest were as tight and silken as the hair on his head. 

Then Gwion pulled Will down onto the bed beside him, drawing him in close and kissing him so that Will thought he would come apart from that alone; and then Gwion's hand on him felt _so good_ , and Gwion himself felt so far beyond _wonderful_ that Will could not begin to describe it. His skin felt as if it were stretched to a breaking transparency and he was filled with light. When he came he bit down hard on the heel of his free hand to try and keep from making too much noise, and Gwion muffled his own cries, choked out not in Welsh but in some language that sounded far more ancient, in the hollow where Will's neck met his shoulder. 

They lay there together in each others' arms for a little while, half-lost in dreams, until with a sigh Gwion rose and went to fetch a towel so they could clean themselves up. 

'No one can know, can they?' Will whispered. Content as he was his heart ached a little nonetheless at the thought of having to hide this new-found happiness; it was not fair. 

Gwion brushed back a stray lock of hair from Will's face. 'It would not be wise, I think.' 

Will sighed and reached for his clothes. 'What happens now?' 

Gwion had pulled on his trousers and his shirt, leaving the latter unbuttoned, and he smiled as he saw Will's grey gaze linger on him. 'Now we go back to the business of pretending that you are just Will Stanton and I am just Elgan Jones, chance acquaintances and not an Old One of the Light and his lover from beyond the world of Time.' His face sobered. 'I jest, Will, because truly I do not know what is to follow. Something is brewing, something I did not expect when I came to find you here, and it is to do with Bran. Merriman named you the Watchman, and it is here, now, that you must be most watchful, I think. Midsummer's Day is only a few days hence; as I said earlier, that is a dangerous time for someone like Bran, for all that the sun is high in the sky and the shadows at their shortest.' 

Will nodded. 'I will do anything to keep him safe.' It was the simple truth. 

'And I will help you, in whatever way I can. As for what happens once our time here is over… I cannot tell you how soon we may have a chance to be together, like this, again.' The room was a dance of light and shadow but Will still had a brief glimpse of pain on Gwion's face. 'But the winds of the world blow strangely, Will, and I will always know where to find you, that I can promise.' He pressed his forehead to Will's, caressing the back of his neck, and Will, in a sudden surge of love and longing, cupped Gwion's face between his hands and kissed him, cheekbones, eyes, lips, forehead, over and over again, as if he could press the feel of Gwion into himself, indelibly. 


	4. Chapter 4

The next day the sun rose into a sky thick with leaden clouds, and even in the early morning there was a brassy tinge to the air. Will felt as if he was holding his breath, listening, braced already for a storm. He wished he was with his uncle and Bran, collecting the new dogs from Idris Jones Ty-Bont's farm, and he regretted his promise, made a few days before, of helping John Rowlands with the construction of a new chicken coop. This morning more strongly than ever Will felt that his place should be at Bran's side; he reassured himself as best he could that they would be back within a few hours at the most, and tried instead to focus on what he was supposed to be doing.

'Ow,' he said ruefully, stopping to suck his banged thumb for the third time. 'It's not as easy as you make it look.'

'Practice, that is all it wants,' John Rowlands said. 

'I haven't had much of that. Too many older brothers, they always did everything before I even got there.' Will finally succeeded in nailing the two boards adequately together. 'There you go.'

' _Diolch_.' John Rowlands took the pieces and fitted them neatly into place. 'Did something happen yesterday, Will _bach_?'

As it was, so many things had happened yesterday that Will was temporarily at a loss for how to answer. 'What sort of thing?'

'Between you and Bran, in Tywyn. An argument, perhaps.'

'Oh.' Will shook his head. 'Not between us, no.'

'Some other trouble, then.'

Will looked into the strongly marked face and saw only concern. Still, he hesitated. 'Did Bran mention anything?'

'Not in so many words. But you must understand, Will, I know Bran well. And last night he was—unlike himself. Fey, almost, I would call it. Withdrawn, as if he were suddenly very far away.'

The description matched so completely with what Will had sensed in Bran the day before that he was taken aback; he reflected that he had forgotten just how perceptive John Rowlands was. He pulled at a grey thread that was unravelling from the bottom of his t-shirt. 'Hasn't he always been like that, though? More or less?'

'That is not what I am talking about, and well you know it.' John Rowlands' deep voice was as sharp as Will had ever heard it. 'And you will not play that game with me, Will Stanton, for I know that whatever else you may be you are not a fool.'

'All right.' Will met his gaze, no longer making any attempt to disguise the Old One behind his usual pleasant face. 'How much do you remember, about the other times I have been to visit here?'

'Enough,' John Rowlands said, and his voice was still hard. 'Enough to know that where you go strange things happen, especially to Bran—and death follows.' He stopped abruptly; it was as if a door had suddenly closed behind his brown eyes.

_Death follows._ Will had never considered it from that perspective before. _Cafall. Caradog Pritchard. John Rowlands'—wife._ His mind flinched away from the horror of it. 'I was truly sorry,' he said. 'About… Mrs Rowlands.'

'Were you now.'

Will could hear the flat disbelief in the words and he longed for there to be _something_ he could say that would sound convincing in the face of so much pain. 'Yes, because you loved her, and you lost her, just as Bran has lost Owen Davies, and I can't even imagine how badly that must hurt, even though neither of them were the people you thought—'

And now it was his turn to shut his mouth quickly, desperately wishing he could take back what he had just said, and it was too late. He whispered, horrified at himself, 'You should not be able to remember any of this.'

'I do not have to,' John Rowlands said heavily, 'to know that there was something... different... about my Blodwen and that her death was... not quite what it seemed. Even if I cannot put a name to it. Nor do I want to. And unless it is absolutely necessary I do not want to know what is going on with Bran now, either, whoever his true father was. Have I not said to you before, Will, that I shall help you in any way I can, but do not tell me what it is you are about?' Will nodded. 'Then consider that the offer still stands. But it is for Bran's sake, and Bran's sake alone.'

'Thank you.' Will let out a breath he did not know he had been holding. 'That means a lot, really. More than I can tell you. Because I'm here with Bran, now, but I can't stay forever, so—thank you.'

'This Elgan Jones, now.' John Rowlands was frowning, tapping the shaft of a hammer absently on his palm. 'What has he to do with all this? And do not try to tell me that he is nothing but an ordinary man, because I will not believe you.'

'He has nothing to do with this.' Will could not help the warm glow that seemed to suffuse him at the very mention of Gwion, but he tucked the more pleasurable thoughts away for later; he could not afford to be distracted. 'He is not... ordinary... but he is here for reasons that have nothing to do with Bran.'

John Rowlands made a non-committal noise. 'He is one of your masters, then.'

'No, he's not. He is different from us. On the same side, but because he chose to be, not because he was born to it. He paid a great price for helping the Light, a long time ago.'

'As so often seems to happen.'

Will shrugged, helplessly and unhappily, knowing that it probably made him look unfeeling. 'I wish it could have been any other way,' he said, 'but the price of not helping would have been much more terrible.'

Then John Rowlands suddenly shook himself, like a man shaking off an unpleasant dream, and he clapped Will on the shoulder. 'Eh _bachgen_ , let us not talk on this any more. We will both do what we can for Bran when it comes to it, whatever comes. There is nothing to be gained from going over the _what ifs_ and the _if onlys_ , poking at old wounds to see if they will bleed any more.' He put down the hammer and took up a saw to begin working on another piece of board. 'The past is past, and here there are chickens waiting patiently for us to build them a better house.' 

Will returned the crooked half-smile and they worked together in relative silence for a while. Faint from the house came the murmur of the radio, and somewhere a bird called, but the sound seemed strange, as if distorted by the oppressive atmosphere. Lightning forked down from the sky and lit the crown of the mountain, and thunder growled deep in the distance.

'It will break soon,' John Rowlands said, wiping the beaded sweat from his face.

'Yes,' Will answered, and he did not care if the other man thought he was talking about the storm or something else. 

There was a purr of a car's engine and soon the LandRover was pulling into the yard with a crunch of gravel. Pen and Tip, who had been lying quietly nearby, pricked up their ears and ran over to investigate the newcomers, barking as David Evans and Bran stepped out of the vehicle and the dogs leapt lightly down to begin exploring their new home. The sky split again and the sight of Bran, standing there very tall and white in the heavy air, made Will think of a photographic negative, all the colours inverted and unreal. The thunder this time was louder, closer. 

'Helwyr, _tyrd yma_!' Bran called, and the larger of the two new dogs ran to his side. Will sat back on his heels, watching them as they started to cross the yard towards himself and John Rowlands.

'Is it common,' he said, and it seemed to him that his voice came from a great distance; his head was whirling, 'that kind of colouring for a Welsh sheepdog?'

John Rowlands looked from the dog to Will and back again. 'Any colour is possible, with these dogs,' he said slowly. 'They are bred for work, not for their looks, and red and white is as common as black and tan, or any mixture. But a white dog, with the red only on the ears, now… that is not so usual. Not so usual, no.'

'I thought not,' Will said.

The dog was a creamy-white, with ears the rusty shade of dried blood, and golden eyes, alarmingly similar to Bran's own. He ran over to them and sniffed at Will's outstretched hand without a great deal of interest, cocked his head at John Rowlands for a moment, and then trotted back to Bran, circling around him almost protectively, tail high.

'Isn't Helwyr a beauty?' Bran said. 'The other one, the black one, is his sister: Seren, because of the white blaze on her face. But Helwyr is mine.' His pale face was glowing with a kind of wild delight; _he is strung taut as a wire_ , Will thought. 

'Helwyr—hunter,' John Rowlands said. 'And Seren—star.' He shook his head. 'Idris Jones has come over strangely poetic, now, to be naming his dogs in such fashion.'

Forcing a cheeriness he did not feel, Will said, 'He is a beauty, Bran. I'm happy for you.'

Lightning and thunder cracked the world simultaneously, and it began to rain, massive drops that swiftly plastered their hair to their heads and their shirts to their backs and filled the air with the scent of wet cooling earth. Will and John Rowlands grabbed their tools, and Bran gave a whoop, and Helwyr barked, and they were all running in a tumult of feet and paws for the dry haven of the farmhouse kitchen.

'No more work to be done outside today,' David Evans said, looking out of the window. 'This is setting in and will not be done before tomorrow morning, I should think.' John Rowlands gave a rumble of agreement. Will shivered a little in his soaked shirt. 

'Back in a minute,' he told Bran, and went to change.

*

The next morning Will came awake very suddenly. The room was bright, and the rain no longer drummed on the roof with a dreadful insistence; the storm had passed.

He had scarcely said good morning to his aunt and uncle when the door banged open and John Rowlands and Gwion came into the kitchen. The expressions on their faces made Will's insides turn to ice.

'Will _bach_ ,' John Rowlands said without preamble, searching Will's face carefully, 'is Bran here with you?'

All at once Will's mouth was very dry. 'No. No, he's not. We stayed up quite late last night, we were playing cards, and Scrabble—until about midnight, I think—and then he said it was time he went home.'

'His bed has not been slept in.' John Rowlands scrubbed a hand across his face. 'And Helwyr is also gone.'

Aunt Jen said 'Oh, _no_ ,' and David Evans exclaimed in angry concern, 'Fool boy—' But then an idea seemed to occur to him and he added, 'The big barn, John, did you look in there yet? He may have gone—'

'He is not there either.' And in sudden anger John Rowlands rounded on Will. 'And what were you thinking, after all we talked of yesterday, to let this happen? A fine way to—'

' _Digon o_ , John,' Gwion said, a warning hand on the shepherd's arm.

But now David Evans was also frowning at Will. 'If this is some mad prank dreamed up between the two of you—'

'It's not, I had no idea—' Will strove to keep himself calm; he wanted to shout at them _Can't you see that I would have gone with him, if I'd known?_ In his mind he ran quickly through the events of the previous day, cursing himself; what had he missed? But try as he might he could see nothing, find no clue as to why Bran had vanished or where he might have gone. With Helwyr's head resting in his lap that evening Bran had seemed to soften, to relax back down into himself from the strung-tightness Will had observed in him earlier that day. Tentatively, Will had even asked Bran to come and visit him in Bucks. in December, to celebrate his birthday and stay for Christmas if he wished, and the invitation had been accepted with scarcely any hesitation. What had changed? _What had he missed?_

David Evans was shrugging into his jacket. 'Come, John, we will take the car—let us check the old cottage first and see if we can find any trace of him, it is as good a place to start as any.' 

'Will and I will work our way over the _Craig_ , on foot,' Gwion said, 'unless you have any other suggestion, Will?'

Will shook his head. 'Those both seem like good places to start, to me. They were—they _are_ , both special to Bran.'

John Rowlands' lips were set in a thin line, but he nodded curtly and preceded Will's uncle out the door. 'Back here in two hours, then, to see what we have found,' David Evans said, and he too left.

Distress was written clear on Aunt Jen's face, and Will squeezed her hand tightly for a moment. 'It'll be all right, Aunt Jen,' he said, with a confidence he did not feel. She gave him a dubious smile.

'I can't _feel_ him,' Will said, as soon as he and Gwion were out of earshot. His voice felt rough in his throat. 'I can't—I have no bloody idea where he's _gone_.' He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if by shutting out sight he could somehow conjure a vision that might help him, and then blinked away the fractured after-images. 'Ah, god. You didn't see the dog, did you?'

'Bran's new dog? No.'

'White. Red ears.' Will heard Gwion's sharp intake of breath. 

The wet grass quickly soaked through Will's shoes and made the legs of his jeans slap heavy against his ankles with every step, but now they were coming to the rocky part of the climb. Will paused, looking down and across into what had used to be Pritchard's land. He remembered sharply the last time he had stood in this place. 'We faced the _Brenin Lwyd_ , here. Well, sort of. His _milgwn_ , anyway. And then up, through the door of the birds, to win the golden harp.' The memory was so clear, and yet all trace of it had been washed from the rocks themselves; the magic was gone, and with a sudden certainty Will knew Bran had not come this way. 'He's not here.'

Gwion's grey brows were drawn down in thought. He raised his voice, then, in a brief song; the warm baritone rang out clear in the air and the words were of finding and unlocking and revealing, of shadows falling away. But nothing came forward in answer to that call, powerful though it was.

'You may take comfort in this much at least,' he said, as they returned slowly to the farmhouse to meet the others, 'it is not the work of the Dark that has taken Bran.'

Will laughed without amusement. 'Do you know, I'd be almost more relived if it was? I know the Dark, Gwion, I understand it, what it can do and what it can't. And Bran—even without his memories, just by being who he _is_ he has some innate protection against them. But this? It's like a wall, everywhere I look, and I can't find a single crack or any purchase in it, and I don't know what danger Bran might be in or how to reach him.'

Gwion looked thoughtful, but said no more.

*

The search went on for days, and there was nothing to recover save the endless tired echo of their voices, calling until Bran's name became strange through repetition, a long meaningless syllable like the croak of the bird for whom he was named. Will went out daily, despite Gwion's best efforts —and after the first couple of days, his uncle and aunt's—to make him stay behind. He felt that he was battering himself against a wall indeed, but he could not relinquish his hope, ever-diminishing though it was, that the way through might yet be revealed to him.

His parents phoned and begged him to come home; Roger Stanton even offered to catch the train to Tywyn to collect him, so that Will would not have to travel alone.

'Not yet,' Will said. 'Please. Not yet.'

After nearly a week Gwion forcibly kept Will away from the mountain, citing the need for an extra pair of hands on a trip into town to collect some lumber and stock feed. Will allowed himself to be dragged along; he was exhausted, and sick at heart, and could not bear the thought of another day's fruitless searching.

'I didn't think you'd know how to drive a car,' he said awkwardly as the fields flashed past and the road flattened out before them. 

'One of many talents,' Gwion said easily, teeth flashing in his beautiful smile, and Will relaxed a little. They were both silent for a short while, and then Gwion said, 'Will—'

'Don't.' Will shook his head and stared out the window.

'Old One.' Gwion's tone was still gentle but there was an undercurrent of sternness in it that forced Will to glance over at him. 'Come now. It is time to speak, not to be silent. Talk to me.'

Will drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them, squeezing his eyes shut. 'What is there to say? I've failed him.'

'Have you, Old One?'

Will turned his head so that his cheek lay atop his knees instead, and opened his eyes. 'I don't see how it can be any other way. I should have been with him when he went—wherever he went. But I wasn’t, and now I've lost him, forever.'

'Are you so sure?' Gwion's dark eyes flicked over to Will before returning to the road. He turned the LandRover into the main street and headed towards the beach. Before Will could respond, he went on, 'Do you remember, when you and Bran came to the Lost Land—Merriman was meant to be with you, but he could not come because he missed the moment of the spell that would allow him past the Land's enchanted borders?'

'I remember.'

'Tell me, then, do you blame Merriman for not being there, and for making you face all the dangers of the quest alone?'

'Of course not.' Will sat up properly. 'It was a trick of the Dark, putting Simon Drew in danger in such a way that only Merriman could help him.' He scowled. 'I see what you're trying to do, you know. But this is _different_. Merriman was doing something good; I was _asleep_ , for god's sake!' He laughed bitterly. ' _Watchman_ , I'm supposed to be.'

'I believe,' Gwion said, pulling up into a spot near the topmost dunes and turning off the engine, 'that Watchman or no, king's _dewin_ or no—if you had been _meant_ to go with Bran, wherever he has gone, you would not have been asleep. And you should remember that Helwyr was with him, and that, I think, is an important thing.' He nodded towards the beach. 'Come, _cariad_ , let us go for a walk.'

It was still fairly early in the day and the beach was not yet crowded. Will walked with his hands in his pockets, head down, turning Gwion's words over in his mind as he watched the packed white sand give and crumble under his feet. Beside him the bard sang to himself, softly and unselfconsciously, as if it were as natural to him as breathing. The tune was touched with melancholy and the words were those of an older tongue, seized upon and greedily carried away by the wind from over the sea.

At length they reached a stony outcrop: two short outflung arms, stark and grey for the most part but studded here and there with green grasses, and between them a sheltered strip of sand, swirled with the marks left by the retreating tide. Will leaned back against one of the rocks and looked out over the blue expanse of water. 'That hurts,' he admitted. 'To think that... Bran doesn't need me any more. I thought—well, I hoped, maybe, after enough time had passed— ' He broke off. 

'It may not be for always.' Gwion stroked his grey beard. 'We do not yet know upon what journey Bran has gone, or to what purpose. There may come a time when he will return and need you at his side once again. And in the meantime, you are no less the Watchman of the Light.'

Will took a deep breath and let it out with a great _whoosh_. 'That's true, I suppose.' He gave a wry half-grin. 'No knowing how things will turn out when people like you and me and Bran are involved, is there?'

'No knowing,' Gwion agreed.

Will tipped his head back and let the sun shine onto his face as he allowed the thought to sink into him: perhaps he had not failed, after all, perhaps this was something he was not meant to have a part in, not yet, or not ever. Perhaps he could surrender to that, trust it. But that meant... He looked at Gwion. 'I have to go home, soon. I have no reason to be here any more. Well, I mean—' 

'No reason that anyone can know of.' Gwion traced the tips of his fingers lightly over Will's cheek and down the side of his neck, and Will shivered into the touch. A little hesitantly, because he was still not used to the idea that Gwion was _his_ , he reached out and laced their fingers together, and the look of warm delight on the bard's face made Will smile, really smile, for the first time in a week. 

'How long will you stay at the farm?' he asked. 'And what will you do after that?'

'For the summer, as I have promised. After that... time is not quite so simple for me as it is for you. I have—other responsibilities, other paths that I must walk before our ways go together again.' Gwion looked suddenly very serious. 'Will, _cariad_ , I wish I could say when I shall see you next—'

'I'll wait.' Will said fiercely. 'It doesn't matter. I'll wait for you.'

Gwion's smile was sad. 'You must understand I am not talking of only weeks or months, Will. The separations between us will be measured in years, until we have each finished the work that we are here to do.' For a moment his expression was bitter. 'You are _young_ , Will, for all that you are also an Old One. I cannot ask you to promise—'

'Don't say that.' And although his heart was sinking Will wrapped his arms around Gwion and kissed him. 'Don't say that. I meant it. I'll wait.' And he kept on kissing Gwion, exploring with gentle insistent mouth and tongue until at last the older man gave a soft groan and leant into him, pressing Will hard against the rock with a hand on either side of his shoulders, breaking their lips apart only to work a line of kisses down the side of Will's neck and back up again. 'Oh _god_ —we can't do this here, can we?' 

'We almost certainly should not,' Gwion whispered, and pulled away. 

Will closed his eyes briefly and tried to compose himself, feeling the loss as Gwion drew back; his whole body ached for touch. 'Tonight, though?'

Gwion's mouth twitched. 'Are you so keen to go hunting for owls again, then?'

Will glared at him in mock-anger. 'Oh shut up, don't you smirk at me like that—if you've got any better ideas for how I'm supposed to sneak over to your cottage late at night without my aunt and uncle having kittens I'd be delighted to hear them.'

The other man gave a rich rolling chuckle. 'Well, let us run our errands for the day and see what we can come up with together.' He took Will by the shoulders and kissed him gently on the forehead. 'It is good to see you smile again, Will.'

END OF PART ONE


	5. Chapter 5

PART TWO

'And will you be bringing anyone for Christmas this year, love?'

Will cradled the receiver between his shoulder and his ear as he made himself a cup of tea. 'No, Mum,' he said, a touch exasperated although also a little amused. 'There's no one to bring. As usual.' He added a splash of milk to the mug and moved to the battered couch. 'Anyway, you'd think there'd be enough people coming already, the house will explode if you try and cram one more body through the door. Good thing not all of us are producing offspring the way you and Dad did.'

'No need to be cheeky,' his mother said mildly; he could hear the smile in her voice, but then she went on in a more serious, almost hesitant tone. 'Look, Will—I know you don't like to talk about... Well, about relationships...' 

Will's heart gave a sudden lurch; he answered as lightly as he could. 'No, I don't. So?'

'I just wanted to let you know that—well—you can bring _anyone_ home, you know that, don't you love? Whoever it is. We'll be happy for you.'

For a moment Will really couldn't find any words; he felt both painfully happy and endlessly sad. He said at last, 'Oh, I know, Mum, really I do. And I appreciate it. But honestly— _honestly_ —there's no one for me to bring,'

When they said their goodbyes a few minutes later and hung up, Will sat there for a long time, his mug of tea forgotten on the floor beside the couch. After a while he pulled out the pendant that he wore on a long leather cord around his neck; it was a thin flat disc of fine-grained apple wood, intricately carved with knotted patterns. Gwion had made it, and given it to Will the last time they had spent together. That had been two years ago.

Will pressed the wooden circle to his lips; it was warm from the heat of his skin and the edges of the carvings were a delicate maze, impossible to solve. _I miss you_ , he thought. _Please come back._

There was no knowing when that would be, of course. Gwion came and he went, unpredictably, dancing through Will's life every twelve months or so; but for him to be absent two entire years was unusual, and if Will let himself think about it he felt ill. He would not think about it. He did not doubt Gwion's love for him; there were few things in the world he felt more sure of than that. But the last time that Gwion appeared he had looked... _shattered_ , as if he were a china vessel that had been broken and mended so that the cracks still showed, a subtle jarring mismatch of line. He asked Will to sing to him. Will had protested; his voice was nowhere near what it had been when he was a boy soprano, and Gwion—Gwion deserved the most beautiful music that could be imagined.

'Please, _cariad_ ,' Gwion said, sounding very weary, 'please. For me.'

And Will, initially at a bit of a loss, had finally settled on an old lullaby his mother used to sing to him, stroking Gwion's hair gently until they both fell asleep. The next morning Gwion had seemed back to normal. Will allowed himself to miss his lectures without a second thought, and if Gwion's kisses and caresses had seemed a little rougher and more urgent than usual Will found he did not mind.

Will woke the morning after that to an empty room and his fingers folded around the exquisitely carved pendant. There was always a gift when Gwion left. A raven's feather, dark as a moonless midnight sky; a rose with petals of such a deep blood-crimson that as they dried they turned almost black; a little ceramic jar filled with fragrant ointment. There was a smooth grey stone with a hole bored through it by water and time, and a picture of a small brown wren on a scrap of paper, painted in melting watercolours delicate as breath. Will kept these treasures in the plainest-looking box he could find, as if the things inside were the most inconsequential objects in the world; it was the perfect metaphor, he reflected wryly, for his own life.

He was well-liked, and he worked hard, and he was busy, and he was lonely, but the time passed more quickly than he could have imagined it ever would. Two years. Two whole years since he and Gwion had seen each other. 

_Lonely, but not alone_. He tried his best to hold onto that thought. 

Every now and then at the pub someone would try to pick him up; it was an even fifty-fifty as to whether that person would be female or male. Will declined all offers politely. Occasionally he was tempted, simply because sometimes he was overwhelmed by the sheer desperate loneliness of his own hands and the desire to rest his head on someone's chest, listening to the quiet ticking of another heart. Yet whenever it came to the point he drew back and away: because he had a cardboard box full of extraordinary treasures, and because Gwion was out there somewhere being tossed on the storm of his enchanted life, and his were the only eyes that could look at Will and truly see him.

Every now and then Will dreamed of Wales, walking the hills around Tywyn and calling for Bran, his voice echoing in the empty sky.

*  
Gwion stepped out from the postage-stamp-sized bathroom and Will held out a mug of tea: strong, black, a teaspoon of sugar to cut the bitterness. Gwion accepted it with a smile of thanks and moved to the couch. Will sat beside him on the floor, twining one of his arms around the older man's leg and resting his head briefly on his knee before taking a sip of his own tea: milk, no sugar. 

It was the tail-end of summer: there was a haze like smoke in the air, and Gwion had been staying with him for a whole week; unaccountable luxury. Will sighed contentedly as Gwion carded his hand idly through Will's floppy brown hair; the action was soothing and hypnotic, and it comforted Will even though he knew that their time together must surely be drawing to a close. He pushed the thought away; no point in spoiling a moment that was so close to perfect as to be no matter. 'Tell me a story,' he said.

'A story?'

'Mmm.' Will closed his eyes. 'Tell me.... Oh, tell me about you and Merriman?'

Gwion's hand paused momentarily, then resumed its steady rhythmic movements. 'Well, it is a tale worth telling, I suppose.' His voice deepened and grew in resonance as he spoke, though he spoke quietly; every word was precise and brought the images clear and vivid to Will's mind. 'It was the time of a great battle, the battle of Arderydd in the Old North, a battle of kings who were men fighting for the things men fight for, and the Dark rode on their backs like the carrion crows they are. Uninterested they were in the conflict save for the pleasure they took in strife for its own sake and in the darkness in men's hearts. They sought one person only, and that was Merriman.

'He was wounded, surely to the death had he been mortal himself, and he fled to the forest, deep into the dimholt with wolves at his heels. To the apple tree he came, all gnarled branches and twisted trunk, ancient almost as he was himself, with the sweet fruit still thick upon its boughs, and the blossom too, as white as snow and stars between the green leaves. And he hung there, the hawk, blood streaming from him like wings, in the circle of its protection with the wolves of the Dark all around. He could not die, of course, but there are other things than death, and worse, where the Dark are concerned. They had only to wait, until his powers failed him at last, and then—'

A cold fist of terror clenched in Will's gut at what Gwion left unsaid. He shivered, but said nothing.

'But I found him there,' Gwion continued, 'after long seeking, sent by his sister, who I think you must know: a Lady, in a blue gown, with a rose-coloured ring on her finger.' He smiled at Will's quick hiss. 'And their names were given to me, these creatures of the Dark, so that I undid them letter by letter, spell by spell, until only their bones were left on the cold ground under the darkling trees. I took him from the apple tree then, my Myrddin Wyllt, and I healed and held him until his sister came.'

'So that was what he meant,' Will breathed. 'He never told me the story, just that... you had saved his life, a long time ago. I always wondered.'

Gwion nodded. 'That was our first meeting, and not the last, and we went many journeys together after that.' 

Will shivered again, unable to help it; he was sometimes able to forget, safe as he was now, the true horror of all that the Dark brought with them, and the terror and the urgency of the quest for their defeat. It was good to be reminded, he thought. Gwion pressed a kiss to the top of his head. 'And now it is your turn to tell me, _cariad_ , where does your own next journey lie?'

'Cornwall, again. I'm heading down there in a couple of weeks, once the summer tourist season is well and truly over.'

'Ah.' Gwion drained the last of his tea and set the mug on the coffee table. Removing Will's own mug from his hands he tugged Will up onto the couch beside him, pulling him in close. Will twisted around to kiss him, but then held back, and the hairs on his arms and neck prickled, for there was a strange look in Gwion's eyes, at once distant and glitteringly present. 

'Sign-seeker, you were,' he said, 'but no more; that task is done. Lore-seeker now; no longer Watchman, but Guardian. Gramarye is gone; it lives only in you, Will Stanton, and it is yours to give or to withhold.' 

Then he blinked, and was his own smiling self again; but those words stayed with Will for the rest of his days, and he would not forget them.

*

With a grimace Will pressed playback on the recorder one more time, tapping the end of his pencil on his nose as he tried to fathom the best way to render the musical Orcadian words into English. 'A gifted ear for dialect,' his professors at university had said, 'and amazingly quick to pick up spoken languages.' That was all well and good, Will thought crossly, making a few notes and then just as quickly striking them through and hitting playback again, but for all his Gift of Gramarye he wasn't a bloody poet, and if he'd realised just how _difficult_ it would constantly be to make a halfway decent translation of all the dying folklore of the British Isles he'd have chosen a different profession.

Well, no he wouldn't. He knew an inescapable calling and a path beneath his feet when he felt one, after all. 

Anyway, if he ended up making a complete hash of it the original recordings would always be available for someone else to have a go. He scowled and scribbled some more.

The youngest child of the household tapped shyly on his door, and said, ‘Here’s post fur thee, Dr Will.' She handed him a couple of envelopes and disappeared swiftly back to the kitchen before Will could thank her.

Will recognised his mother's handwriting on the topmost envelope, which looked considerably the worse for wear and was also thicker than usual. Will soon discovered why: his mother had enclosed another letter in addition to her own. He looked at its postmark and a sudden, shuddering thrill went through him. Tywyn, Wales. When he saw the return address, neatly lettered on the back, he nearly dropped the whole thing in astonishment. 

It was from John Rowlands; copperplate letters in black, black ink, precise on the creamy page.

 

_Dear Will,  
It will be a surprise to you to receive a letter from me, so many years after we last spoke. We parted on bad terms, which I regret, although I will not apologise, because I do not think it is the right of you and yours to mete out judgement or forgiveness—and if I have acted in a way that merits either I trust in my Maker to render me what I deserve._

_But the point of this letter is not to go over the distant past. I have something else to tell you: I have seen Bran._

_Or at least, I think that I have seen him; I cannot make it clear in my own mind whether it was a dream or not, but I will tell you the tale and leave you to decide._

_In this dream, if dream it was, I was an observer only, and I saw in a field a great flock of ravens. They were all black, except for one white one in the middle, and that one was chained to a great stone, and it had golden eyes. Beside the field sat two men, seated on a red carpet with golden apples embroidered in the corners, and they were playing a game with golden pieces on a silver board. Neither man was young. The first had a tanned face with a grey beard, and brown hair likewise streaked with grey, and his eyes were blue. The other was fair and pale, save that his face looked almost black, as if it had been smudged heavily over with smoke. By this man's feet slept a dog that looked much like Helwyr: white, with red ears, as I am sure you have not forgotten._

_I could hear a great squawking and cawing from the birds and when I turned to look at them I saw that they were under attack by a great host of men, and though they fought with beak and claw it seemed they were having the worst of it. And then nearby I heard a voice, a voice that should perhaps have caused me great surprise but it did not—no more than anything else in this strange vision I am telling you. It was the voice of the man that I will still call Elgan Jones, though I know that cannot be his right name. Here I will not hazard my guess as to what his true nature is, though I have my own ideas, as I have about the other men who sat there playing, but there is enough strangeness here already without trying to put names to it._

_Elgan Jones was kneeling before the first man, the one with the brown hair and grey beard, and he said, 'Lord, is it your will that these men attack your ravens? If it is not, forbid them.' And the brown haired man looked to the fair one and asked, 'Will you forbid them?' But the other replied only, 'Play your game,' and they moved the golden pieces on the silver board._

_Again this was repeated, the same questions, the same responses, and the game went on. When I looked again at the field I could see that only a few of the black ravens were still moving, but that the white one fought on despite its chains. And when Elgan Jones spoke for the third time, asking the brown haired lord if it was his will that this happen, at last he seemed to grow angry, and he said, 'Raise the banner.' So Elgan Jones seized the standard that stood hard by, a black flag with no device on it, and with it he struck the chains that bound the white raven to the rock. At once all the other birds flew up again with a great beating of wings like thunder, and they vanished, and the men who had been attacking them vanished, and in the space of one blink and another the white raven became Bran standing there very straight and tall like a young tree._

_The fair man with the blackened face disappeared, but the dog that looked like Helwyr ran straight to Bran's side, and the lord with the brown hair looked at Bran as if he were at once very proud and very sad. He bowed to Bran and then he too was gone. And Bran walked away carrying the black banner over his shoulder with Helywr trotting beside him, and I did not see where he went. Then it seemed to me that Elgan Jones became aware of me for the first time; he looked at me and said, 'Tell Will.'_

_So I have done, and here is a great long letter like the ravings of a madman, and should anyone but you ever read it they will think surely I have spent the night on Cader. I do not know what use this information may be to you, Will. Perhaps none. But I have done as I was asked, though I do not know what it means._

_John Rowlands._

 

Will read the letter greedily, too fast, wonder building in his chest; he actually had to stuff his fist into his mouth like an overexcited schoolboy, or else he would shout out, or cry, or do something else entirely appropriate that would earn puzzled questions from the family he was staying with. His hands shook as he folded the letter and placed it carefully in his backpack; he would read it again, more slowly and thoroughly, another time. Right now it was too much for him to try and formulate a clear thought about it all. Bran; Bran was out there somewhere and he was _all right_ and he had a _place_ —He could hear the cheerful hum of voices from the next room, and through his window the sun was hanging on the horizon in a misty yellow haze; that finely balanced moment between day and night, dizzy with possibility, before the early-falling evening set in.

Taking a deep breath, he skimmed through the letter from his mother; nothing of importance, it was really just an accompaniment to the one she had forwarded to him. Will set it aside and picked up the remaining one, addressed to him care of the university and sent on by his college. It was from his friend Sarah Morgan, at the University of South Wales.

And Will felt now all his instincts firing up beneath his skin; _this_ was too much, it could be no coincidence that two letters from Wales should arrive for him on the same day here, at this furthest outpost of the world. He smoothed out the paper with trembling fingers and read:

 

_Dear Will,  
I hear you've got your doctorate at last - congratulations! I'm sure you're somewhere at the ends of the earth chasing up the obscurities that we both love so well, so I hope this letter reaches you in time, because I think you'll be interested in this. _

_You may know of a South Welsh tradition called the _Mari Lwyd_ \- it's a New Year's festival featuring a horse's skull (made of cardboard or wood these days, generally) carried in a procession by a group of people, sometimes kids. There's music and bells, and the _Mari_ goes through the town, finishing up at the pub for more songs and shenanigans, blessings for the coming year, all the usual sort of thing you might imagine._

_From what I understand the _Mari_ custom died out for years; I think it's been a good decade and a half since it was last performed here, but there's been a push for a revival recently and for some reason I thought it sounded like it was right up your alley. Apart from the interest of the festival itself I can put you in touch with some of the local historians and other fonts of local knowledge so who knows, you might even be able to get the university to cough up the cost of your train ticket (ha ha!). It's not a holiday, it's research!_

_If you like, I'd be happy to put you up at my place, and save you the expense of a hotel (although, I'll probably be away visiting family myself, but I'll be able to leave the keys with the landlord—I'm sure he won't mind, we're respectable upright citizens, we post-doctoral academics)._

_Anyway—let me me know as soon as you can if you're interested, and we'll sort it all out._

_Best, Sarah._


	6. Chapter 6

The jaws snapped and clacked as the beribboned skull jerked this way and that, all red streamers and jingling bells and white-painted wood with green glass eyes. Will clapped his gloved hands along with everyone else as the parade went past, children laughing and shrieking gleefully as the _Mari Lwyd_ pretended to bite at them. One small boy cried, and was hurried away by his mother. A man and a woman in motley shook a stick and a broom with mock-fierceness. Colours flashed and whirled, silken-bright against grey stones and dark coats, under the high thin clouds.

Will shook his head. It was beyond surreal, watching this painted facsimile of nightmare toss its head in time to the music of bells and drums and whistles, dancing down the everyday road. He remembered the skeletal horse that had pursued him and Bran through the Lost Land, the unholy wrenching terror of it, and shivered a little, still, at the memory. He wondered if the child who had been frightened would have nightmares, like Bran had had.

The parade was passing, people drifting away, some following, others heading home. Will looked across the emptying street, and saw Bran.

The white-haired boy looked just as he had the last time Will had seen him; his tawny eyes were uncovered, and he was looking at Will, a slight smile on his lips. He pushed off from the wall he was leaning against and walked over; people eddied around him, like leaves in a gust of wind, shivering as they went.

'Hello, Will Stanton,' Bran said.

And swifter than thinking Will was on his knees on the hard ground, knowing that none of the mundane passersby could see him any longer, but not caring even if they could. He bowed his head for one long moment, reverently. 'My lord.'

A squeeze of his shoulder; Bran's fingers were so cold the ice of them seeped through Will's thick coat and his jumper, and all the layers beneath to the bones themselves, but he did not mind. 'Everyone's lord, in the end,' Bran said, with the easy arrogant tilt to his head that Will recognised so well, but then he laughed, and the sound was unexpected, genuinely merry. 'And their ferryman and tour guide too, for all that.' He held out his hand. Will took it, and was hauled to his feet. 'Come on, _dewin_. We have somewhere to be.'

They walked north, companionably silent, and as the grey afternoon faded to darkness the land flashed past like a film on fast-forward; or perhaps they were in fact standing still while the world spun about them, for there was no movement of air on Will's face, despite their speed.

'I see him quite often, you know,' Bran said after a while, adding in response to Will's raised eyebrow, 'Gwion.'

'Do you?' A kind of terror caught at Will as he realised what Bran must mean. 'Well. That makes sense, I suppose.'

'He asked me to give this to you.' Bran fished for something in his pocket. It was the ring that Gwion had always worn, the dark stone carved with the leaping fish of King Gwyddno's crest. It lay in Will's hand surprisingly light; he closed his fingers around it almost convulsively, as if it might float or fall away, and be lost forever.

 _It should weigh more_ , he thought, _so much meaning is in it_ — He cleared his throat, but still his voice came ragged. 'Thank you. The next time—the next time you see him, will you say, I miss him?'

'Of course.' But as Will made to slide the ring onto his finger Bran shook his head, and laid his cold hand over Will's. 'I wouldn't, yet. Not til all your work is done, Gwion said. Then put it on, and he will come.'

Will swallowed, and slipped the ring into his own pocket.

The world was slowing down again, and Bran was pushing open the front door of a cottage that Will knew, and they passed silently through the dark front room into the modest bedroom.

John Rowlands lay in the bed, his eyes closed and his lashes a dark smudge on cheeks that looked too pale, even in the shadows thrown up by the low-burning lamp. The bedside table was decked with all the paraphernalia of illness: a thermometer, a glass of water, white capsules, a Bible. In a nearby chair, Jen Evans slept. Will felt surprisingly shocked; sickness was something he had never associated with the hardy Welshman, yet here he was, and on every inhale something nasty rattled in his chest. Will clenched his fists against that awful sound.

Bran's eyes were bright and amber as if they had drawn in all the little light that was in the room and were reflecting it back. He reached over and touched John Rowlands' hand, gently. 'Wake up, John,' he said in Welsh.

And John Rowlands' eyes snapped open, as dark and lively as they had ever been, and they showed no surprise at what he saw. He sat up, slowly, swinging his legs out from under the covers and setting his feet on the floor. 'Back again, _bachgen_?' he said to Bran, and drew in a deep breath. With a feeling that was an equal mixture of joy and pain Will realised that the rattle was gone. 'Well now. It is good to be able to draw breath again.' There was a hint of challenge in his words, but Bran only smiled and held out a shirt. 

'When you're ready, John.'

The shepherd stripped out of his pyjamas and began to dress. 'You got my letter, then?' he asked Will.

'Yes,' Will answered. 'I did. Thank you.'

John Rowlands grunted. 'All's well as ends well, then.' He crossed around to the opposite side of the bed, to where Will's aunt sat curled uncomfortably in her sleep, and with a gentle hand he brushed her hair back from her face, placing a kiss on the top of her head. 'Well now, Jen. Goodbye for now.'

They walked out into the night; the clouds had blown away and the stars were out. Will raised his hand in acknowledgement, and the glittering constellations flashed and flared more brightly in response. The three of them paused, just past the threshold, and Bran pointed up the mountain.

'Our way lies up there, John and I. But you, Will—'

'Second star to the right, straight on til morning?' Will smiled, and Bran's face lit up with a grin of its own. 

'That's the thing. You'll find your way easy enough.'

'Goodbye, John.' Caught by a sudden impulse, Will bowed deeply; when he straightened he found that John Rowlands was regarding him with dry amusement.

'Eh, Will _bach_. No need for that.'

'There is, actually,' Will answered frankly, and John Rowlands' face creased deep with his familiar smile before he turned away and was gone.

*

'...anyway, congratulations, mate,' Stephen said over the phone, and Will allowed himself to bask happily for a moment in the warm glow of his favourite brother's approbation. 'What an achievement—and a professorship too, Mum said? At your age? That's bloody _amazing_.'

'Oh, it is,' Will agreed. He traced his fingers over the stack of books, five thick volumes high, that sat on his coffee table. He could still hardly believe it himself. After all the years and the pages of notes, the hours of recording and transcribing and translating; staring at black text on a glowing screen, late night after late night and on into the early mornings; here it was, his work, condensed and solidified into the pile of hardcovers before him. Collected Folklore of the British Isles, edited and translated by Dr William Stanton. And here and there within the pages, openly hidden like diamonds in a sea of faceted glass, the secrets of Gramarye: easy to miss, but for those with the eyes to see— 

Will riffled the edges of the topmost volume; they made a soft whirring sound, like the wings of birds. 'I know it is,' he continued, and then, after a beat, 'but you know what, Steve—I'm turning it down.'

' _What_?' His brother's voice was sharp with incredulity. 'You must be joking, Will.'

'No, honestly. I'm not accepting it.'

'But—for god's sake, why? This is a dream come true for you, isn't it?'

Will let his gaze drift over to the box that sat beside the pile of books. 'It was once, maybe. But I've got other dreams as well, you know.'

There was a clamour of voices in the background on the other end and Stephen groaned. 'Look, Will—I've got to go, Abby and Liz need me to drive them to some party or other. I'm so sorry, but I'll call you back in a little while, okay? We need to talk about this.'

'Sure, that's fine,' Will said easily. 'Give the girls my love, okay? Catch you later. Bye, Steve.'

He put the phone down, and opened the box, the plainest cardboard box he'd been able to find. Almost dreamily he sifted through all the treasures of the years, until at last his fingers found what they were looking for. The ring was cool in his hand, and the lines of the leaping salmon carved into the stone seemed to glow a little with a light of their own.

Will slipped it onto the ring finger of his right hand. Nothing felt different, yet. It was too quiet. He pushed a CD into the player and stood looking out the window, resting his forehead against the cold glass as the sweet bright notes of the flute rippled and spun.

When he turned around, Gwion was there. He was dressed in neat dark clothing like that he had worn in the Lost Land when Will had first met him, and over his shoulder there hung a leather case; by the size and the shape of it Will guessed it contained his harp.

For one long moment Will stood and simply _looked_ , taking in the sight of Gwion, the strong-featured face, the bright eyes, the smile so white against his neat grey beard; he was afraid even to blink or breathe in case the spell should be broken and the vision disappear. And then he hurled himself across the room into Gwion's arms. They were both laughing and crying and kissing too much for words, and Will felt almost drunk with the sheer marvel of it all: the taste of Gwion's mouth and the fragrance of his skin, all green herbs and sandalwood and deep sweet spice, familiar and strange and new at the same time.

' _Fy anwylyd_ ,' Gwion whispered, between kisses, ' _fy anwylyd, fy anwylyd_...'

Will's face ached from smiling and yet he could not stop. 'Is that all you have to say, after all this time?' he teased breathlessly, running his hands through Gwion's hair. 'The greatest bard and poet of all the ages, have you no song prepared for this moment? Aren't you going to serenade me?'

Gwion huffed out a great laugh. 'I will have none of your cheek, Old One, or beware, I will satirise you instead. There will be time enough for all the songs, and everything else, too. For ever and ever, we shall have.'

Will stilled for a moment; the phrase rang a bell deep in his memory. 'You've said that to me before,' he said slowly. 'In the Lost Land... For ever and ever. _So that a thing may be for ever,_ you said, _and yet begin again and be for ever just as before..._ ' 

'Yes.' Gwion's expression now was serious. 'And you had picked a yellow apple, and you were holding it and looking at me with these beautiful grey Old One's eyes of yours as we talked about time, and endings, and whether it is truly possible to die: you who will never know it, and I - who know it too well.' He wrapped his arms around Will, fierce and tight.

'No more, though,' Will murmured. He could feel Gwion's heart beating against his chest. 'No more?'

'No more,' Gwion agreed. He held Will at arm's length, now, and he smiled again, though his cheeks were wet.

And all at once the joy thrumming through Will built up in him like a tremendous, thunderous song, impossible to contain. 'Then let's _go_ ,' he said, and it came out as a half-shout.

' _Yes_ ,' Gwion answered. His eyes shone and and he held out his hand for Will to take, and Will caught his breath because _this_ , this was so close to the moment of his first dream, all those years ago—but now the ring was on his finger, and there was no doubt, no fear, no uncertainty in the desire that lit him from head to toe. 

He took Gwion's hand, and they turned— 

Behind them, the music spilled silver into the air, until at last the CD came to an end, and then there was silence.


End file.
